


you were burned, about to burn (you’re still on fire)

by humanveil



Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: Episode Tag, F/M, Infidelity, Pining, Season/Series 11
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-14
Updated: 2018-08-07
Packaged: 2019-05-29 21:44:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15082346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/humanveil/pseuds/humanveil
Summary: Tension, guilt, boundaries, and breaking points.or: Enter Jo Marlowe.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so. I’ve been rewatching season eleven and I just… had to. I actually love Jo, and I’m still glad canon didn’t just use her as a tool to create tension between Liv and Elliot, but her character sets up too many good opportunities for E/O. So here we are.
> 
> Starts in ‘Torch’ and runs right through ‘Ace’ and ‘Wannabe’ to post ‘Shattered.’ Some dialogue taken directly from the episodes, but hopefully not too much. I’d recommend maybe watching the eps, but it’s not necessary to understand what’s going on (I don’t think).
> 
> Title taken from Richard Siken’s ‘Straw House, Straw Dog.’ Enjoy!

**torch.**

 

The crime scene is a whirlwind, the road and home barricaded, the air thick and heavy with smoke. Bodies litter the street: cops, firemen, medics. Innocent bystanders. A crowd is growing, everyone who heard the sirens out for a look, their eyes alight with curiosity, sorrow, easing adrenaline. 

Olivia follows Elliot through the mess, toward their newly assigned ADA.  _His_  old partner. 

She doesn’t know how to feel. 

“You never told me you worked with another woman,” she says, and it’s not quite accusatory, but it’s not  _not_ , either. Like so much of them, it’s an awful in between. 

“What are you talking about?” he says, throws it over his shoulder. “I’ve been telling you Jo Marlowe stories for years.”

“Except the one where Jo is actually a woman.” 

It’s lighthearted—playful, almost. She has no real reason to be upset, she knows, and she isn’t. Not really. It’s just… something she’d have liked to know. 

She doesn’t ask herself why.

Jo turns around in the next second, catches Elliot’s eye before looking to Olivia, too, and it’s weird, Olivia thinks as she watches them. Surreal to see him like this with someone else.  

Surreal, and yet she can’t help but like her. 

[]

Two days, two dead children, and now a perv with a fire fetish. Olivia misses the days where it would’ve surprised her. 

She watches Elliot slip inside the interrogation room, sees him place the extinguisher on the floor near the door, hears his voice filter out to where she and Jo stand. She has no idea what his plan is, but she’s hoping it’ll work. Wants this to be over with sooner rather than later. 

“Tell a story. Build empathy.” 

Murmured words: knowing, complacent. Olivia can’t help but look toward Jo, can’t pretend not to notice the ongoing commentary. The proof that she knows how Elliot works just as well as Olivia does. 

“Use your family.” 

She wants to ignore it, to focus instead on what’s playing out behind the window, on what Elliot is saying, but it’s easier said than done. Olivia can’t help it—the words crawl their way under her skin. Irk her in a way she can’t describe. 

It’s like Jo is trying to prove something, like she’s trying to showcase something. Like she wants everyone to know Elliot was her partner first; that she  _knows_  him. Had helped make him the detective he is today.

It’s… tiring, more than anything. Her partnership with Elliot is in a good spot—has been for a while now. The last thing Olivia wants is to go back to questioning everything. 

[]

They get the confession, for all the good it’ll do them. Jo claims it’ll be thrown out, and though she argues, part of Olivia believes her. She can see it, can practically hear the word _coercion_  being thrown around. As if it matters when two children are dead. As if Elliot hasn’t done worse. 

“Cut the euphemisms, Olivia,” Jo is saying, is looking at her like she already knows what she’s thinking. The no-nonsense approach is something Olivia can at least appreciate.  

“Just because you were a cop, doesn’t mean that you’re on our side.”

She’s been trying, because there’s no reason not to and because Jo means something to Elliot, but the words are still true. The unit’s been through enough ADAs that she knows better than to blindly trust one, no matter how much she trusts Elliot’s judgement.  

“I wasn’t  _just_ a cop. I was Elliot’s partner. I wouldn’t betray him any more than you would.” 

Jo looks her in the eye when she speaks, and as the words leave her mouth, the picture inside Olivia’s head falls into place; starts to make sense. She can’t help the smile, the small tilt of her head. 

“You transferred back here to work with him again.” 

There’s a pause, and even as Jo denies it, Olivia doesn’t quite believe her. There’s something about her, about them. A certain vibe they radiate that makes Olivia’s curiosity itch. 

“Speaking of Elliot,” Jo starts, and this time there’s a smirk on her face, a glint in her eye. “You and he ever…?”

The question remains unfinished, but it doesn’t need to be. Olivia’s well aware of what comes next. Has been asked the question too many times to count.

“No,” she says. Shakes her head. “He’s married.” 

The quick, quiet laugh is unexpected; the sardonic undertone irritating. “Yeah,” Jo says, and a hollow feeling sinks into Olivia’s stomach. A whirlwind of emotions passing through too quick for her to catch. 

One word, and a billion follow up questions. 

She watches Jo turn, tries not to think of the implication. The lingering disbelief. “Where are you going?”

Jo turns back to her at the door. “To rescue our case against Pizzaface,” she says. “You coming?” 

[]

She doesn’t talk to Elliot about it.

She should, she thinks—wants to, even. But she doesn’t. Isn’t sure how to bring it up. There are boundaries, things they talk about and things they don’t. A potential affair falls into the latter.

Besides, she’s not sure she wants to know.

“Want a lift?”

Elliot’s voice cuts through her musings, draws her back to reality. They’re in the bullpen, finishing up for the night. Almost everyone else has already left.

“It’s late,” she says, and what she means is  _you were due home hours ago_ , is  _my apartment’s out of your way_. She knows he knows. “You sure?”

“Yeah.” He’s leaning against her desk, bag in hand and jacket thrown over his arm. His gaze expectant as he looks at her.

“Alright,” she says. “Give me a minute.”

The car ride is quiet, the both of them exhausted. Overworked. Olivia doesn’t understand why Elliot does this, why he chooses to drop her off instead of just going home. God knows he could use the extra sleep.

“You think he did it?” Elliot asks when they’re halfway to her apartment. “Sullivan.”

“I don’t know,” she tells him. Part of her still wants to believe in the good in people, still wants to think that a father could never willingly kill his children. The other part knows better. “You?”

Elliot shrugs, one shoulder lifting as they turn a corner. “He looks good for it,” he says, but he doesn’t sound a hundred percent certain.

Olivia hums. “Nice trick with the onions,” she tells him, changes the topic. Her mouth twitches at the memory, the image of Jo’s surprised expression. She wouldn’t admit it, but she’d enjoyed watching Elliot in there. Had liked knowing something Jo didn’t.

Elliot grins, quick and fleeting. “Too bad it didn’t work,” he says, and there is that, Olivia thinks, but she isn’t too worried. This case is hardly their most complicated—they’ll get it soon enough.

The rest of the drive is mostly silent, Olivia’s gaze focused on the passing city. Part of her mind is still thinking about Jo. About Elliot. The questions she wants to ask sat somewhere at the back of her throat.

She doesn’t say anything.

“Whose turn for coffee tomorrow?” Elliot asks as they pull up to her building.

“Yours,” Olivia says with a smirk. She grabs her handbag from between her feet, pushes the car door open. “And I switched to tea.”

Elliot groans. “Again?”

“Again.”

“Great,” he says, and Olivia laughs. Steps out of the car and shuts the door behind her.

“It’s better for you,” she tells him, but Elliot’s only response is a disbelieving hum.

“Blink your lights,” he calls out through the open window, and Olivia smiles at the concern. At their little tradition.

She lifts her hand in a half wave, turns on her heel, and disappears into the building.

[]

Not talking doesn’t work. It very rarely does. 

Olivia can feel Elliot staring at her from across the desk, knows he’s confused about the tension that’s started to develop between them—not too much, but enough to notice. The strain growing as the case develops. She waits, knows Elliot will bring it up sooner rather than later. 

It’s only minutes until he stands, disappears for a moment. Olivia keeps her head down, taps her pen against the paperwork she’s trying to fill out and reads the same sentence for a third time. When Elliot returns, it’s with tea. He places the steaming mug on her desk, turns so he’s sat on the edge: ankles crossed, arms curled against his chest, body bent forward so they’re close. So she’s the only one who can hear him when he talks. 

“Did I do something?” he asks, and Olivia drops her pen. Pushes her seat back slightly so she can lean back, look up at him. 

“No,” she says, because he hasn’t. The expression he gives her makes it obvious he thinks she’s bullshitting, and Olivia can’t stop her sigh. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know,” Elliot repeats. His confusion is obvious. 

“I just…” Olivia starts, trails off. “Do you really think Sullivan didn’t do it?”

Elliot arches a brow. Hadn’t expected that to be her issue. “That’s what Jo thinks.”

“No, I—” Olivia stops, swallows. Tries again. “I know that’s what Jo thinks,” she says. “I’m asking what  _you_  think.” 

Elliot tilts his head. “It’s plausible,” he says. And then, “You don’t trust her judgement?” 

He almost sounds defensive, the way Olivia knew he would, and she wants to sigh again. It’s not that she doesn’t trust Jo, it’s that she doesn’t agree with how quick Elliot is to back her play. How willing he is to switch courses just because she said to. She knows Elliot—knows he wouldn’t be half as amenable if they’d been assigned a random ADA, and it’s bothering her. Nagging at her.

(She’s not jealous. It’s a reoccurring thought, something she keeps having to repeat to herself. She’s not jealous—has no reason to be. No _right_ to be.)

(And yet.)

“I just think you were a little quick to jump ship,” she murmurs.

The furrow in Elliot’s brow deepens. “You’re the one who had doubts,” he points out, and Olivia can feel a groan press at the back of her teeth.

“I know, but—”

“What’s really bothering you?”

His voice cuts through her sentence, clear and conscious, and Olivia curses how well he can read her. Knows there’s no point in trying to talk around it now.

She swallows, scans the room to see if anyone’s listening, and asks, “Did anything happen between the two of you?”

The implication is clear. Elliot recoils, expression switching to one of shock. “What?”

“She just… said something,” Olivia tells him. “Made it seem like maybe you had.”

“I—” Elliot cuts himself off. Pauses. Emotion swirls in the pit of Olivia’s stomach: a combination of panic and dread and fear. He should have denied it by now, she thinks. The silence speaks volumes. 

“Okay,” she says. Leans back, curls her hands around her armrests as if preparing to stand. “You don’t have to expla—”

“Wait!” Elliot reaches out as Olivia gets up, curls a hand around the crook of her elbow so she can’t walk away. He steps close, stands in her personal space and speaks in low tones so no one can overhear. “We didn’t sleep together,” he says. “Alright? It’s nothing like that.”

“But it’s something.”

Elliot’s expression confirms her statement. “There was a case,” he says. “An undercover gig. Things got out of control. We didn’t. She wanted to, but—”

“Kathy,” Olivia supplies, and Elliot sighs.

“Yeah.”

Olivia stares, doesn’t really know what to think. Truthfully, she’s surprised Elliot’s telling her anything at all. “Does Kathy know?” she asks, because it seems important, somehow. Because it’s something to say.

“Yeah,” Elliot says again, only this time there’s an edge to it. Something that makes Olivia think the revelation didn’t go over well. “She’s not… the biggest fan of Jojo.”

“Right.”

Olivia’s voice is flat, the silence that stretches awkward. They stand there, unmoving. A million thoughts running through both their minds.

Elliot’s the first to break the silence. “What’d she say to you?” he asks.

“She asked me if  _we_  had,” Olivia tells him, and Elliot nods like it should’ve been obvious. Takes the tiniest step back, his hand falling from Olivia’s arm. Olivia pretends not to notice.

“Figures,” he murmurs. Olivia arches a brow in question and Elliot shakes his head slightly. “She likes riling people up,” he explains. “It’s probably why…”

“She acts the way she does?”

“Yeah.” Elliot smiles, but it fades a moment later. His expression serious as he stares at Olivia. “It didn’t mean anything,” he says. “I was young and she—”

“You don’t have to explain,” Olivia says again. It doesn’t stop him.

“I want to,” Elliot tells her. “I don’t want you to think I’m the type of person who does…  _that_.”

Olivia’s mouth twitches, the smile soft and short-lived. “I don’t,” she says, and means it. Sometimes she thinks it’s the only thing she knows about him.

Elliot stares for a moment more before he nods again. Exhales. “So we’re good?” he asks.

“We’re good,” Olivia tells him. She turns, happy for the conversation to be over, but stops at the buzz of her phone. Reaching into her jacket pocket, she grabs it. Unlocks it to reveal the text. Jo’s contact flashes up at her, the message one that draws a sigh from her lips.

Elliot has already stepped away, back toward his desk, and Olivia has to reach out. Hook a finger in the cuff of his sleeve to stop him before he can sit down.

“Not so fast,” she says, shows him the screen. “We have a man’s innocence to prove.”


	2. Chapter 2

**ace.**

 

A pregnant rape victim is bad enough. A pregnant rape victim, a gruesome murder, and what looks to be a baby trafficking ring is significantly worse.

“Tell me we can drink,” Elliot says, and Olivia laughs from her spot in the passenger’s seat, the sound soft and airy. 

“I have beer in my fridge,” she tells him. Rolls her head against the car seat to look at him. “Not the light crap, either.” 

He makes a grateful noise in response. “Food?”

“ _That_  we’ll have to order,” she says. Sees the corner of Elliot’s mouth twitch. 

“I forget you live like a twenty-year-old college student.”

Olivia rolls her eyes, though the act is fond. The joke one she’s heard before. “No point in stocking food when I’m never home,” she tells him. “It just goes bad.”

Elliot hums, because he’s heard  _that_  before, too, and Olivia looks back out the window. Fingers fiddling with the case files on her lap, the pad of her thumb tracing the edge of a manila folder. 

They go undercover as a couple tomorrow; have been told by both Jo and Cragen to sort their stories out tonight.

Beth and Glen Butler—a happy couple so desperate for a baby they’re willing to bend the law. Simple, really, only ‘getting their stories straight’ means figuring out a way to pass as married. Which means sorting through years of photo albums in order to redecorate the Butler’s current residence. Which means beer. And probably lots of it. 

“Pizza?” Elliot asks as they pull up to her apartment building. It’s only just getting dark, the sky overhead a greyish blue. 

Olivia hums her confirmation as Elliot parks on the street, bends to gather her things before stepping out of the car. Elliot follows, trails behind her as they walk across the path and into her building. 

“It’s a mess,” Olivia warns as they reach her floor, only slightly apologetic. She passes Elliot their files, rifles through her bag to find her keys. 

“You should see mine,” Elliot tells her, follows her inside. “Elizabeth’s been teaching Eli how to paint.”

Olivia looks at him across her shoulder, mouth twitching. “My condolences,” she says, and Elliot smiles back, shakes his head as if to say _don’t worry about it_. 

He walks through her apartment like he owns it, body moving with a level of comfort that suggests he’s been inside more than he actually has. Olivia watches him dump the files on her kitchen counter, sees him go for the phone and dial the number to her local pizza place. She moves around, chucks her coat over the back of a seat and opens the fridge to pull out two beers, twisting the cap off the both of them before handing one to Elliot and walking back toward her couch. He joins her not long after, settles down beside her with an easy sort of intimacy. 

Two hours later finds them on the floor, legs crossed and backs leaning against the couch’s edge. Her coffee table has been pushed to the side, the floor in front of them littered with open photo albums and boxes full of pictures. One beer has turned to four, the discarded table covered in empty bottles and remnants of their dinner. 

“I remember that night,” Elliot is saying, a photo held between finger and thumb. He lifts it, tilts it so she can see. 

It’s black and white, a snapshot of just the two of them. They’re close, smiling. Maybe a little drunk. Her arm is wrapped around Elliot’s shoulders, hand casually splayed across his chest and brushing his tie.

It looks almost like a wedding photo would.

“So do I,” Olivia murmurs. She takes it, brings it closer to her face to get a proper look. It’s from some type of gala, she recalls. 2003, maybe 2004. They’d spent the entire night attached at the hip. “The beard wasn’t your best look.”

“Hey!” Elliot’s expression is one of faux offence, his voice purposefully hurt. “I was going through it.”

Olivia’s only response is a laugh. She adds the photo to the pile deemed ‘couple-y enough’ and goes back to sorting through the stack in her lap, most of them from the early days of her partnership with Elliot. It’s weird, really. They’ve sorted through tens, maybe hundreds of photos, each of them seemingly more intimate than the last, and the trip down memory lane is bringing up buried emotions she’d rather stay supressed.

The thing is, it’s never been hard to pass as a couple. It should be more difficult, she thinks. Shouldn’t be so easy to play married, shouldn’t feel so damn natural. But here they are—here the evidence is. Obvious and undeniable.

“Been a while since we went undercover,” she murmurs. Her voice is quiet, absentminded. Her gaze is fixed on the picture in her hand: her and Elliot, circa 1999, Central Park acting as their backdrop. They’re both laughing. Caught off guard. His arm is hovering near her waist, their bodies close enough that her shoulder is brushing his chest. If you squint, Olivia swears it looks like he’s about to kiss her cheek.

Elliot hums. “You nervous?”

“No,” Olivia says. Mumbles. “’s long as you don’t kiss  _me_  this time.”

The words slip out before she can stop them, her tongue loose with alcohol. Olivia stills when she realises what she’s said, Elliot doing the same beside her. His body tense. Rigid. 

They both start and stop speaking at the same time, their voices a jumbled mess that fades to an uncomfortable silence. Elliot clears his throat, turns against the couch to face her. 

“1989,” he says after a pause. “There was a dead kid. A little boy. The main suspect was some drug kingpin. You know the type.” 

Olivia tilts her head in a minuscule nod as proof that she’s listening, but doesn’t say anything. Just lets Elliot continue. 

“We went undercover at his club,” Elliot says, “but they were suspicious. We were going to get caught, so…” he trails off, inhales slowly. It’s easy enough to fill in the blanks. “Jo thought it would make them look the other way.”

Olivia swallows, fiddles with a loose thread on her jacket. She gets it—can see why Jo would think it was a good idea. That doesn’t stop the way her stomach clenches with discomfort.

“Did it?” she asks, and there’s a split second where Elliot looks surprised. Like he’d expected her to react differently. It’s gone as quick as it comes.

“Yeah,” he says. “We got out of there after. Kissed again near the car, but I…”

“Remembered you were married?” she supplies, and it sounds harsher than she’d meant it to. Elliot looks at her, his brow raised, and Olivia wants to sigh. Can practically feel the fight coming.

“It’s not like I don’t know I shouldn’t have done it,” Elliot says, and it’s not as confrontational as Olivia thought it would be, but it’s not _not_ , either. “But I didn’t initiate it. Didn’t keep it a secret, either, and believe me—Kathy made me pay for it.”

He adjusts himself against the couch, moves the tiniest bit closer. There’s still a photograph in his hand, Olivia realises. The edge of it bending beneath his thumb. She catches sight of someone’s smile—his, hers. She can’t tell.

“If you’ve got a problem,” Elliot continues, softer now, “just say it. I already get enough crap about it at home. I don’t need it from you, too.”

“It’s not that,” Olivia says, murmurs. “I’m just…” _Tired_ , she thinks. Surprised. Still trying to wrap her head around it.

Elliot eyes her, tilts his head in that way he does when he’s trying to figure something out. “Why do you care so much?” he asks, and Olivia wishes he wouldn’t. Wishes they wouldn’t.

She doesn’t know why. Or she does, but she doesn’t want to admit it—to him, to herself. 

“I don’t,” she lies, because what else is she supposed to say? I care because you told me so many stories, but this was never one of them. Because she still seems interested and I’m trying to figure out if you are, too. Because you never told me you worked with another woman and this is probably why. Because I can’t shake the feeling that I’ll wind up as some genderless partner in the anecdotes you tell people years from now. Because you kissed your old partner and you haven’t kissed me.

It sounds pathetic to her own ears, and she’s never been good at this: at jealousy and vulnerability and wanting things she can never, ever have. It’s better to keep it to herself.

Elliot doesn’t believe her. She’d be more surprised if he did. 

Olivia sighs, looks away. Taps her finger against the empty beer bottle at her side. “We should probably switch to water,” she says, effectively changing the topic, and Elliot stares at her for a long moment before he nods. Struggles to his feet to do just that.

He leaves as soon as he feels okay enough to drive. Olivia can’t tell if it’s a good thing or not.

[] 

“A pale blue polo. Really?”

Olivia is leaning against the doorframe of the locker room, her voice full of poorly veiled amusement and her eyes twinkling as she looks at Elliot. They’re getting ready to leave for the Butler’s. Have a duffle full of supplies resting on their desk and a small team waiting outside. 

Elliot looks down at his outfit, lifts his arms as if to ask  _what?_  “They’re the type,” he says. Looks back at Olivia with a smirk. “You’re the one who belongs in a Dwell magazine.” 

Olivia grins, watches as Elliot shuts his locker before he moves toward her, the two of them walking down the hall together. Whatever tension that had been there last night is gone, the situation not so much kiss-and-make-up as it is wake up and realise you still have to work together. Olivia is grateful for it, had been worried it would linger. It’s a relief to know that it won’t. 

They go over the case in the car, check facts and quiz each other on information until they can recite it. Until they know the Butlers as well as they know each other. Until there’s no room for fuck-ups, mistakes. 

Acquittals. 

“I hate rich people,” Elliot says as they enter the Butlers’ home. People are already standing around, prepping the area. Fiddling with decoration and setting up hidden cameras to catch their meeting with Mr. Brooks on tape. 

Olivia hums her agreement, eyes a piece of artwork she knows must’ve cost more than most of her own living room combined. “You just know they’re part of some country club,” she says. Places their bag on the top of a sleek bench and unzips it to reveal a series of photo frames inside. 

She’d picked them herself once Elliot had left—had sorted through the photographs deemed worthy enough and chosen ones she knew would get the job done. Ones that were intimate, but not too intimate. Nothing that would make people talk. Nothing she doesn’t want other people to see.

It’s not lost on her that images like that shouldn’t exist in the first place. That the fact that they do must cross some line, some boundary somewhere. She just… doesn’t want to think about it. About what it means.

“Ten bucks says they play couple tennis,” Elliot says beside her, and Olivia snorts.

“Badminton,” she challenges as Elliot leans against the bench. They look at each other, eyes locking for a moment, and Olivia can read what he’s thinking. Knows they’ve had the same thought. 

“Squash,” they say at the same time, like it should have been obvious. Elliot grins, and Olivia beams back. Tries to stifle her laugh as people move past them. 

“They’d wear the little white shorts and everything,” Elliot murmurs, and the image is too real, too vivid. Olivia shuts her eyes, shakes her head in an attempt to dispel it. To try and smooth her expression.

“Be serious,” she says. Pulls a photo from their bag—her and Elliot, 1999. The black and white close-up different to the photo she’d been fixated on last night. This one something a little less personal. A little less affectionate. “We have a job to do.” 

She’s playing and Elliot knows it. He leans in, mouth pulling upward at the corner—the way it does when he thinks he’s being funny. “Paired with calf-high socks,” he says. “Bet they’d have matching his and her sweat towels, too.”

It’s ridiculous, Olivia thinks. Hours away from meeting with the head of a baby trafficking ring, and this is what they’re talking about. She bites back a laugh, refuses to look at him, but Elliot keeps going. Keeps expanding the scenario until he makes her laugh—proper laugh. The sound loud and out of place in the otherwise quiet home. 

“I hate you,” Olivia mumbles as people look their way, but Elliot isn’t bothered by it. He’s grinning at her, eyes alight and crinkling at the sides. The way he looks when he thinks he’s won.

“Be professional,” he mocks, uses the same tone she had just a moment ago. “We have a job to do.” 

Olivia glares, but it’s fake and fleeting. Truthfully, she’s happy that they’re joking, that things feel normal. It’s proof that he’s not mad about last night.

They finish setting up, the building clearing out once everything is ready, and Olivia sits beside Elliot on the couch. Prepares herself to play married as they wait for Brooks to arrive.

It’s not nearly as hard as it should be. 

[]

“You really think it’ll work?”

Elliot’s voice, barely within earshot. He’s standing beside the coffee machine, Olivia guesses. Jo somewhere at his side. They’re discussing the arraignment hearing, the upcoming trial. Their voices almost drowned out by the general bustle of the precinct.

“He’s our best chance now that Sophia’s been turned to barbecue meat,” comes Jo’s voice, the words frank. Almost a little _too_ blunt.

Olivia wants to sigh. Their case keeps escalating, each development somehow worse than the one before it, and she’s starting to worry. Starting to think they won’t walk away with a win.

“Still no body?”

She hadn’t intended to eavesdrop, but it happens. She doesn’t move from her desk, doesn’t turn around to look, just catches bits and pieces of a conversation she’s not a part of. There’s complete paperwork in front of her, and she works on it idly. Uses it to make herself look busy.

People come and go, bodies filtering in and out as one shift starts and another one ends. Olivia can only hear broken words and unfinished sentences as the noise increases—decides to just give up when the effort becomes futile. Knows that it’s probably none of her business what they talk about, anyway. Even if curiosity does swirl in her stomach.

She tidies her desk, prepares to leave. It’s a rare occasion where they won’t be stuck here all night, and she intends to embrace it. To take the opportunity for what it is and maybe get a decent night’s sleep for once.

“What are you doing for dinner?”

It’s Jo’s voice, the question a thinly veiled invitation. Olivia only just catches it, though the words sound louder than before. Like they’re moving closer.

“I gotta get home,” Olivia hears Elliot say. Recognises the cadence of his step as he nears their desks. “Remind Eli what his father looks like.”

Jo snorts, the sound soft and airy. Olivia looks up to see her hand brush Elliot’s shoulder before she walks forward. Gathers her things from one desk over. “Good luck with that,” she says, pulls her handbag up around her shoulder, and then she’s saying goodbye. Both to Elliot and to Olivia.

Elliot settles on the edge of her desk once Jo has disappeared, hand immediately reaching to pick up the packet of gum peeking out of her bag. Olivia watches him open it, shakes her head as he pulls a piece from the packaging and puts it in his mouth without asking. He grins at her, like he’s daring her to say something, but she doesn’t.

“You leaving soon?” he asks, fingers fiddling with the wrapper. Playing with it until the coloured foil is a perfect ball in his hand.

“Yeah,” she says. Absently taps her pen against the top of the desk. “You?”

Elliot nods. “Need a lift?”

Olivia arches a brow. “You can spare the time?” she asks, and there’s a hint of uncertainty to it. He must know she’d overheard the end of his conversation, she thinks. Must realise she knows the answer is no.

Elliot’s shoulder lifts, the act a half shrug. “For you?” he says. Steps off the desk. “Always.”

The way he says it is playful, almost teasing. Olivia blinks, tries to swallow down the warmth that floods her chest. Feels ridiculous that her body even _reacts_. Elliot grins, and she watches as he pulls his jacket off the back of his chair. Slips the fabric over his shoulders.

“C’mon,” he says, and. Well. Olivia knows he wouldn’t offer if he couldn’t.

She sees no good reason to argue.

[]

_Partners put their cards on the table._

Olivia replays the words in her mind as they walk down the sidewalk. Elliot had sounded upset, she thinks. Betrayed, almost, and it’s a shared sentiment. She can understand why Jo lied about Sophia’s death, but she wishes she hadn’t. Could have done without the emotional rollercoaster.

Elliot unlocks the Sedan as they near it, and Olivia sighs as she slips inside. Lets her head fall back to rest against the passenger’s seat, her hand reaching to rub at tired eyes. Anton Petrov has just been detained, a conviction on its way, and Sophia is safe. Her baby, too. It’s what they’ve been aiming for, hoping for, and Olivia is happy, but she’s also tired. The case shouldn’t have been as difficult as it was, she thinks, but with a heap of uncooperative parties and Jo’s games, she feels drained. Feels like she needs a nap. 

She hears rather than sees the other door open, listens as Elliot sits down. Fiddles with the car keys in his hand. “Is it just me,” he says as he settles in the driver’s seat, “or did that feel like it was never going to end?” 

Olivia’s mouth twitches, her head rolling against the seat to look at him. “It dragged,” she agrees. Lifts a hand to reach for her seatbelt. “But at least it’s over.”

Elliot hums, starts the ignition. “You planning on passing out on your couch to Seinfeld reruns?” he asks, and Olivia snorts. Hates that it’s actually true.

“You know me too well,” she murmurs. Doesn’t miss the way Elliot smiles. The quick flash of teeth. 

They pull out onto the street, Elliot’s gaze flicking to her for a second before it settles on the road. “Want dinner first?” he asks.

Olivia gives him an odd look. “Bit early for that,” she says, because it’s barely past five and they’d only had lunch together a few hours ago.

“Coffee, then,” Elliot amends, and Olivia’s brow furrows slightly. Like she’s trying to figure something out.

“You okay?” she asks. Tries to keep it casual, light. Knows she has a better chance at getting the truth if she doesn’t push him.

Elliot shrugs, neither a yes or a no. It’s utterly unhelpful.

“The case?” Olivia tries, and Elliot shakes his head. She pauses, thinks. Asks, “Jo?”

“No,” Elliot says.

“Home?” she asks, and she knows it’s the right answer when he doesn’t respond. Doesn’t look at her. She exhales softly, looks out the windshield as they pull up at a red light. “What happened?”

Elliot’s fingers tap against the side of the steering wheel, and when he speaks, Olivia knows he’s trying to play it off. Make it seem lighter than it actually is. “Remember when I told you Kathy doesn’t like Jo?” he says, and it’s more than enough to let Olivia know what’s going on.

“Right,” she breathes, the word barely audible. She’s quiet, for a moment. Watches the light turn green and gives Elliot the chance to elaborate. When he doesn’t, she sighs again. Leans further back in her seat. “You’re paying,” she says, and she knows she shouldn’t. Somewhere, in the logical side of her brain, she knows that they shouldn’t. That it will no doubt make it worse. But it’s easier when he’s the one offering, initiating. Easier to forget what’s at risk when the one who has more to lose is taking the first step.

From the corner of her eye, she catches Elliot smile. “Don’t I always?” he murmurs, but he doesn’t argue. Barely says anything more.

They get coffee. Have dinner together, too, and Olivia tries not to think of anything else. Saves the inevitable guilt as a tribulation for later. Is almost certain that Elliot’s doing the same.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she says later, when she’s leaning against the door of her apartment. Elliot nods, murmurs a goodbye, and then she’s watching him leave. Is staring as his back disappears around the corner. Down the flight of stairs.

She’s annoyed with herself when she wishes he could stay.


	3. Chapter 3

**shattered.**

 

There are cases, and then there are bad cases, and then there is  _this_. A dead child and a delusional parent. A friend’s near-lifeless body beneath her own bloody hands. The memory of it all too vivid, too real to blink away. Leave for later. 

Olivia’s eyes are shut, her head resting against a wall with her face pointed upward. She sits. Breathes. In and out and in and out until it’s easy, until fear isn’t clogged in her throat. Until she no longer feels weak with it. Fin sends a text from the hospital—a few quick words to assure her that Melinda is okay. That Olivia saved her life. That she’ll make a full recovery. It’s enough and it isn’t; eases some of the worry but not all of it. 

She lifts a hand to rub at her forehead, and the smell of copper invades her senses. The tell-tale sign of blood far, far,  _far_  too familiar. It will not wash away easily, she thinks. None of it will. 

The worst is over, at least. Questions have been answered, the clean-up in motion. In the corner where she is, she’s secluded. Alone with a full view of the hall. Officers and employees are still running around, rushing to fix things, calm the chaos. Olivia can see Jo on the other end, can see Elliot’s hand on her shoulder even though an open door is covering the bulk of his body. The touch looks light, looks like an attempt at comfort, and Olivia knows what they must be talking about. Had listened through the door. Had heard Jo’s muffled voice bargain and plead, had heard the revelation: teary eyed and honest. 

The past month has been… inexplicable. Interesting. Different, but not always the good kind. They’ve had four major cases, a seemingly endless series of misdemeanours. On one hand it’s flown by, and on the other it hasn’t. On the other it feels like Jo’s been around much longer than she actually has. It’s not necessarily a bad thing, it just _is._

She watches Jo and Elliot talk in low tones and for once she doesn’t want to hear what’s being said. She should go up and join them, she thinks. Should try and talk to her, try and offer her own attempt at comfort. After all, they’d been in that room together. But here, now, part of Olivia feels like she doesn’t belong. Like she shouldn’t be watching. Like it’s not her _place_. 

The officer from before walks by, and Olivia acts before she thinks. Calls out Nelson’s name before she’s even really made up her mind. He turns, stops and steps toward her, a silent question on his face.

“You going my way?” she asks, and it’s quiet. Casual. Calmer than what she feels.

Nelson smiles, nods, and Olivia is almost certain it’s a lie, but she doesn’t mention it. Knows that the kid probably just wants to help. That he must feel some level of guilt about what had happened today.

She stands, follows him down the hall. She can feel Elliot’s gaze on her when they disappear around the corner—knows that he’s watching.

She doesn’t look back.

[]

Her apartment feels emptier than usual. Void _._ Being alone is something she always tells herself she’s used to, but it feels different on days like this. Feels harder, somehow. Like it’s all too much for one person to bear and her subconscious is aching for something or someone to lean on.

Olivia shuts the door, tries to shake the feeling off. She starts toward her bathroom, hands already reaching for her clothes—pulling at her jacket and rolling up her sleeves, stripping away the day’s events one piece of fabric at a time. She goes for the sink, first. Twists the knob for hot water and watches as it gushes out. Waits for it to heat up, for steam to rise.

Blood is always tricky. It stains her skin, ingrains itself into every opening, every crease and crevice. An officer had handed her a towel before, and she’d scrubbed at her hands until they were no longer wet. Until they no longer looked like their own crime scene. It’d got the worst of it off, but her skin is still an ugly shade of red, spots of crimson still littering the surface, and she sticks them under the steady spray of water. Hisses against the piercing heat but keeps them there: soapy fingers sliding over skin with practiced moves, dipping into every nook and cranny, scrubbing up her forearms until the skin feels raw. Until she feels clean. Until she can look down without the image of Melinda’s bloody body looking back at her.

She goes for the shower, after. Has barely turned the water on when the knock comes: the sound loud and familiar and, in a lot of ways, predictable. Olivia doesn’t move to answer it; can’t remember if she locked the door or not. It doesn’t matter much, anyway. He has the spare key.

She hears Elliot’s voice only a moment later, hears him call out her name as he walks through her apartment. His concern is palpable, the emotion laced through every syllable, and Olivia’s eyes shut momentarily. Her exhale of air shaky.  

She looks between the shower and the door, looks down at her body—still mostly dressed, her clothes splattered with blood and water. Elliot appears before she can make a move; knocks on the door gently and waits for permission before he slips inside.

“Liv,” he says, and there must be something about the way she looks, Olivia thinks, because he sounds doubly concerned, now. He’s looking at her with that furrow of worry between his eyes, is walking toward her in slow, calculated steps. Careful, almost as if approaching a frightened animal. As if he thinks she might try and run away.

(She’s thought about running away, before. Has considered leaving. Has thought it might make it easier on the both of them. But it wouldn’t be easy, she thinks—knows. Not at all). 

“I…” She starts, stops, trails off. Elliot lifts a hand, hesitates for a moment before he takes another step forward. He touches her gently, wipes at a spot on her forehead, and Olivia realises that there must be blood there, too. Her eyes shut, and she feels like she could cry. Can feel the burn, the sting behind her eyes.

She falls forward and Elliot catches her, slips an arm around her waist to hold her steady. His grip is solid and secure, his free hand inching up to rest beneath her jaw, his thumb wiping at a spot on her neck, and she’s reminded of only hours earlier: of waking up on a cold, hard floor to the sound of his voice. To the soft call of her name. He’d helped her up. Had massaged the dip of her throat, the curve of her neck. Had rubbed at the mark Culross had left behind with a touch so gentle she’d almost been surprised he was capable of it.

“I’m fine,” she says, and it’s barely a whisper. Is shaky and wet and the pressure behind her eyes is building, the dampness increasing. It’s not surprising when tears catch on her eyelashes, but it is when Elliot tightens his grip. Moves so his chin is propped atop her head and his hand is flat against her back. _No, you’re not_ goes unsaid.

Olivia breathes slowly, her arms lifting to rest around his waist, her grip much looser than Elliot’s. They don’t do this—have never done this. Touching, physical intimacy. It’s a slippery slope. A dangerous game. She isn’t sure she’ll want to stop if they start, and it’s scares her. Makes her want to pull away, even now. Even when she needs it.

“Elliot,” she says. Breathes the name. He pulls back slightly and looks at her, one hand still cupping her jaw, and they’re close. They’re so close— _too_ close. She can feel his breathing, can feel the rise and fall of his chest. If she tried, Olivia thinks she could make out his heartbeat. Could make out the rhythm through pounds of flesh: steady and soothing, an indisputable sign of life.

She knows he’s going to kiss her before he does, and maybe, she’ll think later, that makes it worse when she doesn’t pull away. When she lets him do it. When she meets the press of his mouth with one of her own: the kiss one she feels right down in the depth of her bones.

It’s almost tentative, at first. More breathing than kissing. Elliot is careful right up until he isn’t, until he knows Olivia isn’t going to push him away. He pulls her closer, holds her tighter, and they fall back—Olivia’s thigh hitting the edge of her basin as her fist tangles in the back of Elliot’s jacket, the white-knuckled grip a vice. Something to keep her balanced.

He moves his lips against hers slowly, like he’s taking the time to burn it into his memory: to remember every detail, every place of pressure, every soft sigh and stuttered breath. He doesn’t pull away until he has to. Until they both need air—their breathing quick, heavy. The sound nearly drowned out by her still-running shower.

Olivia swallows, can feel her heart in her throat as she looks at Elliot, and it’s surreal. Strange and bizarre but it also isn’t. Not at all.

It is indolent, she thinks, to ignore what they’ve become. Feeble. The past month has seen a lot of changes, and the shift in their relationship is not lost on her. It’s all there, when you choose not to ignore it. The progression: covert to conspicuous, an attraction they’d kept at bay finally bubbling over to the surface. It doesn’t help that his marriage is failing. It doesn’t make it right, either.

Elliot leans to kiss her again and Olivia lifts her hand, catches his chin in her palm and holds him in place. She leans forward, presses her forehead to his chest and says, “We can’t.”

The words are quiet; both prayer and plea. There’s a tremor to it: desperation, trepidation. She’s terrified that this isn’t something they can come back from—knows this isn’t something she can start and stop, something they can do and not face the consequences of.

Elliot’s hand trails down her jaw, settles on the base of her neck, his fingers bushing through strands of hair. “We can,” he says, and it sounds raw. Guttural. He presses his mouth to the top of her head, down to the spot below her ear. “We can,” he says again, but Olivia shakes her head. Shifts to hold him at arm’s length even though it kills her. 

“I can’t do that to you,” she tells him, and she means it. She’s never wanted to be that person—has never wanted to be considered anything close to a home wrecker. It’s why it’s taken them so long to get here. 

Elliot laughs, quick and airy and anything but amused. “You’re not—” he starts, stops. Shakes his head. “She already left a week ago,” he says, and there’s really no need to ask who  _she_  is. “It’s been coming for months,” he adds, and then, “Liv, I…” 

He trails off, sighs. His eyes are shining in the dim light of her bathroom, the baby blue striking. He’s never been good at voicing his emotions, but she’s always been good at reading them anyway. And she knows what he wants, now. Can see the lingering concern, can imagine the white-hot terror that comes with the words _shots fired._ Can _feel_ the desire that simmers behind it.

She initiates it, this time. Reaches up and kisses him and Elliot slides his arms back around her waist. His hand inching up beneath her shirt, his fingers warm as they graze the dip of her back, tug at the fabric like he intends to take it off.

“C’mon,” he murmurs, and Olivia lets him do it. Lifts her arms so he can peel the fabric off her.

The past twenty-four hours have been anything but easy, but this… this somehow is. 

He strips her, helps her out of her clothes while struggling to take his own off, too, and it sets her whole body on fire. Has warmth coursing through her, as if someone has flicked on a light switch and electricity is swarming her body. She’s thought about this before, has fantasised about it late at night, when there was no chance of getting caught. Even in her wildest dreams, she’d never imagined it would feel like this. That every action, every touch would feel so natural. So _right._

Elliot tugs her toward the shower and she goes easily; his touch just as scorching as the rush of water that follows. He reaches behind her as steam coils around them, and Olivia holds onto him like her life depends on it. Her back hits the tiled wall, her nails digging into flesh as he lathers soap in his hands before reaching for her shoulders, her neck, her chest. Each touch and slide of skin on skin washing away the horror of their day and replacing it with something much more tender.

They don’t have a whole lot of time—her hot water isn’t endless, and she’s let it run for too long already—but they don’t really need it, either. That’s the funny thing about repressed desire, Olivia thinks. Once free, it overcomes you quickly. Can make you fall apart in mere minutes.

Waster cascades over the both of them, their bodies slotting together easily, and this time, when they kiss, it’s teeth and tongue and raw emotion. Is accompanied by the press of his naked body against her own. Time moves hazily, as if they exist in some sort of slow motion, and it’s too much and not enough and everything she’s ever wanted all at once.

“Do you get it, now?” Elliot says against her skin. His teeth nip at her jaw, the sting soothed by the press of his tongue and followed by a leg slipping between hers. By his palm sliding up the length of her thigh. “You never had to worry.”

He’s talking about Jo, about this past month. About Olivia and the way it’d affected her.

Olivia wants to say that she wasn’t _worried_ , that it’d been more like a warped jealousy, but the retort dies on her tongue as he lifts her. As they melt together: her arms around his shoulders and her legs around his waist, their bodies pressed so close it’s hard to discern where one person ends and the other begins.

He kisses down her neck, her chest. Drags his tongue over a nipple and sucks, and Olivia forgets that she’d wanted to say anything at all. It seems unimportant. Insignificant.

Here, now, there’s only the two of them.

That’s all that matters.

[]

They don’t leave her bathroom until after the water has run cold, but when they do, she’s sated and calm and feels centred. Serene. Elliot stays close to her, like he can’t _not_ touch her, and Olivia can’t help but think that she’d been right to have thought they wouldn’t be able to stop once they’d started. That there really is no going back now.

She falls asleep with her head on his chest, with his arm draped across her. Her body enclosed in the security of his embrace.

She wakes up the same way.

[]

It’s a week later when they find out Jack McCoy has ordered Jo’s transfer.

She tells them the news with a smirk and a knowing look thrown Elliot’s way, her voice amused when she looks between them and says, “At least you’re in good hands this time.”

They’re still figuring things out, but it’s obvious that Jo knows—maybe not all of it, but enough. Olivia swallows, tries to stifle the embarrassment that comes with that fact, and Elliot reaches beneath the table to settle a hand on her knee. He squeezes lightly, tilts his head to the side to flash her a small smile. A little smirk. The expression he gives when he knows what she’s thinking and finds it funny. Olivia shakes her head; has to fight with her face to stop herself from smiling back.

“Maybe it’s a good thing,” Elliot says once Jo has left the café. “She’d have told everyone by tomorrow.”

Olivia laughs, soft and airy. “Maybe,” she mirrors. She lets her hand drop down on his. Smiles when he flips his palm up, intertwines their fingers.  

Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t. The only thing Olivia knows for sure is that she’s glad Jo was assigned to them at all. That she’s grateful for what it kicked into motion.

She isn’t sure how long it’d have taken her and Elliot to sort things out otherwise.

**Author's Note:**

> comments & kudos = ♡♡♡
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/elliotoiivia) / [tumblr](http://humanveil.tumblr.com/)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [run with it](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17242772) by [humanveil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/humanveil/pseuds/humanveil)




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